


Idol

by DaisyFloyd



Category: Elton John (Musician), Rocketman (2019)
Genre: 1970s, 1973, Anger, Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Injury, Body Image, Bromance to Romance, Denial of Feelings, Depression, Eating Disorders, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fiction, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Gay, Heavy Angst, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infidelity, Insecurity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Night Terrors, Novel, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24856186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFloyd/pseuds/DaisyFloyd
Summary: “You need to kill the person you were born to be in order to become the person you want to be.” Elton recited, then squeezed Bernie to bring him closer, and tried not to think about his to-do list. “Something like that.”Being honest, he only bothered to change his name legally because he didn’t want his gravestone to read Reginald Kenneth Dwight.Elton John plans his suicide taking every little detail into account. Bernie Taupin, his best friend, doesn't realise until it's almost too late.(This fic is in hiatus since July 22nd, 2020)
Relationships: Elton John/Bernie Taupin, Elton John/John Reid
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29





	1. Reginald, now Elton

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Thanks for checking out my story.
> 
> Before reading, please note that:
> 
> \- I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone mentioned in this story.  
> \- This work is entirely fictional.  
> \- This work does not accurately represent the real relationships of the people mentioned.  
> \- This work may not accurately depict the real life situations the characters are involved in.  
> \- English is not my first language.  
> \- I've written this with much love.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_January 7th, 1972_

_Elton John_

With his left hand holding down the paper to prevent it from sliding and ruining his graceful signature, he swiftly traced the thin lines which composed his novel, opulent name. His bottom lip quivered, and he had to bite it down gently to prevent that slight movement from being too evident to the government employee who looked at him in calm disinterest.

After he was done, he stared at it for a moment, still holding the pen between his index finger and his thumb. Everything about that name was pleasing, from the way the letters were united in his neat calligraphy, to its sound when being pronounced. It suited him, he thought, much more than the birth name that had been chosen by his parents. He had been using this elegant denomination as a stage name for a while, but now it was official. Reginald, now _Elton_ , felt closer to who he strived to be, and further from the boy he once was. He was taking control over an aspect of his existence that he wasn’t fond of and, at last, modifying it to his liking.

He grinned, not with the purpose of appearing friendly to the woman who attended him and was taking care of the bureaucracy of it all, but because he felt his name, at last, described him. It matched with the person he had always been inside, an oppressed being whose existence was never seen as valuable or was even acknowledged at all by most people, until he got the opportunity to show what he was capable of doing when sitting in front of a piano. Except for his family, of course. Musician or not, they didn’t care about him either way.

The woman looked at her co-worker, who sat a few meters behind her, loudly typewriting some document. The clatter of the keys being tapped was a constant she had been hearing all day long. It stopped briefly when she mumbled something Elton couldn’t hear with much clarity, but he assumed it was the typical remark about how weird it was to see this dandy, chubby-cheeked ginger smiling like choosing a campy new name was the bee’s knees.

“Enjoy, or whatever.” She spoke to make him react after seeing he’d been staring at the paper for a couple too many seconds. She sounded like she was trying to get rid of him, evidently tired, and Elton didn’t need to be explicitly told to leave in order to know he should. He left the pen on the table, fastened the tie with orange patterns he had chosen to wear that morning, and reached to shake her hand. She hesitantly accepted, a bit taken aback by his manners and sincere enthusiasm, something rare among the many bad-tempered citizens who usually came to deal with stressful legal matters and the like.

“Thank you, thank you very much.” He said gentlemanly, and even though the woman was quite absent-minded, a thought popped up in her mind without her having much of a conscious part into it. She contemplated that, despite the fact that this man had a gap between his front teeth and wore glasses so thick they looked like the bottoms of glass bottles, he was fairly handsome.

Elton turned around and walked away from the counter, towards the very old-fashioned double door that served as the entrance of the administrational building. The floor was chequered, a style he found sober and lovely, resembling to his new name. As he stepped past other people who waited sitting on uncomfortable black chairs near the door, he noticed their stares almost burning him. He knew it was because of what he was wearing. He was habituated to those types of situations, but that never made it easier to deal with them. He didn’t regret his choice of clothes anyway, and pretended not to have become aware of these strangers and their whispers. It was an important day for him and he was convinced that corduroy jacked fitted him nicely, which was something he couldn’t say about most of his wardrobe. He would always find that detail he didn’t like about himself that whatever he was wearing seemed to accentuate. With this jacket that didn’t happen. He wasn’t going to give that up in order to blend in for once in his life.

He was outside, and London welcomed him back to its streets with a chilling drizzle. He regretted not having brought an umbrella with him when the cold, miniscule water drops started to fall on his increasingly thinning hair. He touched a short list of things to do that he had put inside his pocket earlier that day; a list written in such a manner only he could understand it. He could already tick the first item, and that meant the grand event was one step closer.

Changing his name hadn’t been as hard as he’d initially thought. He just needed to prove he wasn’t a criminal trying to mask his identity to hide from the authorities, which was easy. He was practically inexistent for the system, even though he usually hung out with people who were far from innocent to the strict eye of the law.

However, his empty criminal record wasn’t a reflection of what was really going on in his life. In fact, it was quite the opposite. He wasn’t involved in shady businesses as a seller, but he had purchased drugs so many times he’d probably spent a not so small fortune on them already. If the police ever had a search warrant, thus the right to rummage thought all his possessions, he would be in big trouble.

He wasn’t sure exactly _when_ it had started, but he was addicted by now and he would probably be for the rest of his life, which wasn’t going to be a long time anyway. Drugs made him feel good and that was all there was to it, all the reasons he needed, even though the dreadful sensation after they wore off would only make him want to get rid of it by consuming more. Elton would wonder sometimes, in those moments of absolute misery while waiting for the next hit to kick in, what life would be like if he hadn’t ever tried them at all.

He would end up feeling so low, thinking about that hypothetical reality, he wished he wouldn’t wake up the next day. And the saddest aspect of it was that nobody really cared if he had one, two or a hundred more lines. So he carried on, pleased his senses and tried to get rid of his consciousness. He felt better whenever he was drunk or high, and sobering up would only bring him more unpleasant emotions he didn’t need. He needed the numbness, not to reflect on anything, to let himself go.

The pavement was wet, and Elton moved carefully but hurriedly. He didn’t want to slip and ruin his outfit, but he also didn’t want his clothes to get wet because of the rain that was inevitably going to follow. Also, his friend was waiting for him to come home and had told him that he wanted to watch a movie together, and judging by how the night was falling, it was starting any minute now. No matter how many times Elton told him they could simply rent a movie and not have to worry about when it would start, he preferred the thrill of not knowing what the film was going to be until the very last minute.

He looked up at the sky, dark grey clouds covering most of it. He almost ran into an elderly woman due to being distracted, and decided to focus on going back home as soon as possible.

He could’ve just had a chauffeur take him to and from the administration, but he wanted to do it by himself, alone. He needed that illusion of freedom, that sensation of control. And what he was planning to do was the ultimate expression of that power he’d been missing since he was born, the pinnacle of his humanity, a unique and personal matter no one could take away from him. It was a power he was determined to reclaim.

Elton stood under the marquee of a tiny shop, watching the rainfall. According to the weather forecast, it was going to be the last one London saw for at least a week. He took a moment to appreciate it, remembering how his grandmother used to sit with him by the window and tell him stories during nights like these, stories they would refer to as _rainy tales._ He cherished that memory, and pressed his hand on his chest every time he recalled it as if he were telling her, wherever she was, that he missed her and hadn’t forgotten her.

Elton walked a couple more streets and found himself in the residential area where he lived. His house was an imposing mansion located in the city’s heart, exclusive and grand. As a child, he would’ve never imagined he would eventually own one of these buildings which stood tall beneath his eyes every time his family went on a weekend trip to London. Now he did, and it wasn’t nearly as fulfilling as he’d presumed. He admired the lights coming from the inside, shining, holding a resemblance to sea lanterns under the downpour that was beginning. He climbed the steps in front of the door, looked for his key in his jacket’s pocket, found it next to his list, and put it inside the lock.

As soon as he turned it and pushed, he heard his name being called from upstairs. _Thank goodness_ the familiar voice wasn’t his boyfriend. He would be fuming if he saw him irresponsibly out in the rain, an act that could ruin his voice for his next gig. Elton took off his jacket and hung it by the door, after making sure the paper was well hidden inside. He ran a hand through his wet hair, and a few strands came out. He regarded his hand, the coppery lines drawing an abstract painting on his palm, and closed his fist in frustrated anger. He absolutely dreaded his genetics, to be losing hair like this being only twenty-five years old. He quickly cleaned the crystals of his glasses, ridding them of the thin layer of humidity on their surface that made everything look blurry. Elton put them back on and glanced at the stairs.

“Reggie!” Bernie exclaimed as he stumbled down, wearing comfortable clothes and gripping the railing to save himself from falling. His long hair was wet too, but that was because he’d showered while waiting for his friend to come back. He had the air of an excited child, as he released the railing and gestured like he was trying to use a rope to drag Elton closer. “Just in time, it’s a cowboy film and it looks great!”

Bernie’s obsession with the west was simply adorkable to Elton. He laughed, and walked to the bottom of the stairs. Standing there he extended his arms, as if he was waiting for a hug. “Aren’t you gonna congratulate your mate?” He asked, raising one eyebrow exaggeratedly.

His lyricist understood immediately, and ran to hug him, surrounding his friend with his arms. Elton almost fell backwards but managed not to, and lifted Bernie up slightly while reciprocating the gesture. When it was over, Bernie took Elton’s tie and used it as a lead to guide him upstairs.

“Still gonna call you Reggie.” He affirmed, like it was a fact he would never be able to change, no matter how much he legally tried to.

“Please, don’t.” Elton didn’t really mind.

They went to the master bedroom, where the massive television was in front of the huge bed. Bernie had made sure everything was perfect: He’d gathered almost all the pillows and cushions in the house and put them on the bed, which barely left space for them to lie down, but guaranteed a mushy environment in return. He had made popcorn, because he always said homemade was better than purchased. The bowl was resting on the left bedside table and next to it there was a jar of honey, as Elton preferred his popcorn as sweet as possible. The recently washed fluffy duvet had a faint smell of daisies, the window was closed with the curtains drawn back so as to allow only the dim moonlight inside once the lamp was turned off, and there were those little details only Bernie would ever think about; such as disconnecting the phone so that it wouldn’t interrupt. It was located in what Elton called his studio, where his piano was, and Elton noticed when he went to check on his precious instrument. He came back to the bedroom and asked about it.

“Firstly, if he wants to apologise, he should do it in person like a proper adult.” Bernie stated, sternly and letting a hint of anger show though his voice. “And secondly, I’ve already told you a million times that he’s no good for you.”

John Reid was the reason why Bernie was staying over that night. He’d had a fight with Elton two days ago, and left. They didn’t break up; it was just another one of those episodes the volatile John would have and take out on his boyfriend. Elton was tired of it, but would succumb to his charms every time he came back to say sorry. When Elton called Bernie to talk about it, as he was the only one he could call to talk about _anything_ , he said he would figure out a way to make him feel better. He came up with this improvised cinema Elton was now regarding, and he was glad he had such a thoughtful friend.

Bernie climbed on the bed and found the best place to lie down, as he waited for Elton to undress and put on something more comfortable. Bernie was, without a shadow of doubt, the only person Elton could undress in front of without having a nervous breakdown. There was never any kind of sexual interest between them, and Bernie wouldn’t judge him for his weight, his freckles or his scars. Elton felt he could be honest when he was around his best friend, he could be the unabridged and vulnerable version of himself that he always rejected and concealed. Once he was in his underwear, Elton opened his wardrobe.

“I love him.” He reminded his friend, with his back to him, as he put on a red dressing gown. His voice was monotone, as if he had just stated that water boils when it reaches a hundred degrees Celsius. This lack of inflection only made Bernie even more certain that it wasn’t true.

“He doesn’t love you.”

From the outside, what Bernie said and strongly believed would seem rough and blunt, tactless when said in such a way. He was direct because he was worried, really. He’d seen how unhappy Elton was with his lover, and couldn’t understand why they were still together. Elton forgave John every single time after discovering him in bed with someone else, after he hurt his feelings and didn’t care enough to say sorry, and insisted on keeping their relationship alive.

Elton decided to ignore what he’d heard, and walked up to the bed. He didn’t bother to put his clothes away properly and just left them on the floor, even though Bernie disapproved of it. He lied down next to his friend. Bernie sat up to let Elton position his arm properly across the mattress so that he could rest his head on it, then lied back down. There was a moment of silence, where only the television’s sound filled the air. Elton bent his arm at the elbow, the one Bernie used as a pillow, and his fingers slowly massaged his friend’s scalp, making him drowsy. Bernie soon put an end to that short period of relaxation.

“Reggie...” He softly called, in a whisper.

“Yeah?” Elton glanced at his lyricist, who smiled and laughed.

“See?” He said, victoriously.

Elton realised Bernie was proving that he was still the same person. No matter how much he worked to build a new identity, deep inside he would always be Reggie Dwight. That awkward boy from Pinner who had an unhappy family and wished to become a songman to escape from it all. This immovable, permanent truth made him feel disgusted with himself. However, at the same time, he thought of _being Reginald only for Bernie_ as some kind of seal that signified how profound their friendship was. And that was heart-warming.

“Fuck off.” Elton said playfully, and left a kiss on his friend’s forehead.

Despite the many times he'd fought about it with his boyfriend, Elton would never stop having those affectionate expressions with Bernie. John considered it being unfaithful, but Elton felt he was entitled to it after being cheated on so many times. And he had been cheated on for real, much more than long hugs or caresses, and after all Bernie was his best friend and nothing more. Elton just happened to like showing him that he cared by holding his hand or pecking him on the nose when saying goodbye, but would never be unfaithful. Not like John was.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about that. A part of him was convinced John loved him, but as time passed and Bernie voiced his concerns more frequently, he was starting to have doubts. 

“Why though?” Bernie asked, his eyes looking away from the screen to meet Elton’s, behind his glasses. “Everyone calls you Elton anyway.”

He though for a moment. He recalled his time with _Bluesology_ and found the perfect explanation.

“You need to kill the person you were born to be in order to become the person you want to be.” Elton recited, then squeezed Bernie to bring him closer, and tried not to think about his to-do list. “Something like that.”

Being honest, he only bothered to change his name legally because he didn’t want his gravestone to read _Reginald Kenneth Dwight._

He was going to go, and he was going to do so in style. This was just the first step of the chain of extravagant preparations for his death that he had planned.

Elton looked at Bernie’s eyes and smiled, going back to rubbing his head and watching him get goosebumps. If there was anything behind the darkness that awaited, if he could somehow retain his consciousness in some kind of afterlife, he was going to miss him dearly.

In fact, Bernard John Taupin, _Bernie_ , was the only person, the sole thing in this twisted world he was genuinely sad to leave behind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will either fly or it won't. Haven't seen many Elton/Bernie works and I think I've got the seed to germinate an interesting story. Hope you'll stick around. ❤️


	2. Midnight Escapade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember to read the tags. This chapter (well, this whole story) deals with dark themes.

Trying not to make a sound, Elton carefully lifted Bernie’s head, and put a pillow below it to replace his now aching arm. Then he gently placed it down again, moved his hair away from his face, and left a light caress on his cheek. Bernie smiled in his sleep when feeling his touch, and admiring his lips as they curved mildly, Elton forgot the reason why he was getting up in the first place. The moon was still high up in the sky, and the rain pattered on the window.

Bernie was fast asleep, and he’d been that way since the instant the film’s credits started rolling, which was uncommon for him. He would usually comment on all the different details he’d found amusing, whether he thought the portrayals of the actors and actresses where adequate, and give his diligent opinion on the soundtrack. Elton was always surprised by how observant Bernie was when he started bringing up precise things he himself hadn’t noticed during his analysis, and talking about how the plot could be improved by elaborating on certain themes. Elton would feel impossibly dumb, and he would wind up finding Bernie’s review more interesting than the film itself.

However, that night Elton hadn’t got the pleasure to listen to him. Bernie was especially comfortable under the duvet and its flowery aroma, and having his friend to run his fingers through his hair, it didn’t take long for him to fall into a deep slumber. Elton, on his part, hadn’t been able to close his eyes for more than five seconds straight. He’d turned off the television, there were no irritating noises coming from outside and no bright lights anywhere near. He was warm and cosy, but his mind wouldn’t call a truce.

He watched Bernie sleep, and thought about how he would take it when he inevitably died. He recalled many memories they shared together as he observed his young friend’s complexion. He was simply stunning, he’d always been. And he didn’t even _try_ to, he just was. Elton hoped Bernie would move on painlessly, treasure their years of friendship, and go on to have the beautiful life he deserved.

Elton had been waiting, laying there without his glasses and staring at the indiscernible shapes of his furniture, for a couple hours by the time he got up.

Getting off the bed was quite the task, knowing how easily Bernie could be woken up. Elton laboured his way through the sea of cushions, and reached the side. He looked back and kept his eyes on Bernie as he stood up, just watching in case he saw his friend being bothered by the movement of the bed when his weight was no longer resting on it. Thankfully, Bernie didn’t notice, and kept on dreaming like his friend was still next to him. Elton remembered why he got up when he put on his glasses again and saw his reflection in the mirror across the room. He could barely make out what he was seeing due to the inconvenient combination of his poor eyesight and the gloom, but nevertheless he knew he _despised_ it.

There were two bathrooms in the first floor. The closest one was en suite, but it was far from being Elton’s first option given his current situation. The other was at the end of the hallway, passing the studio which Bernie called his pianist’s _atelier_ , and the guest room. It was a nice little place and way more suitable for what he intended to do, because he would hate to disturb his lyricist with his crying.

His footsteps were noiseless, as he was barefoot and walking on the carpet that covered most of his bedroom’s floor. The door was open but only halfway, and he prayed it wouldn’t creak on its hinges as he grabbed the handle and pulled towards himself. Once again he was lucky and the door opened smoothly. Looking back to see Bernie peacefully sleeping for one last time, he exited the room. He decided not to close the door completely, as the noise it would make could be too loud. He left a very narrow space between the door and its frame.

The hallway was dark, but he didn’t want to switch the light on because of the beam that would enter the bedroom if he did so. His right hand touched the wall for guidance as he reached his destination, the safety of the bathroom where he could perform the actions he had been carrying out nearly every night since his late teenage years.

When he was inside he thought about locking the door after closing it, but then remembered the keys were in his drawer by the bed. It would be too risky to go and grab them, he would need to be exceptionally quiet and he couldn’t resist his urge to throw up anymore. He pressed an arm over his stomach as he closed the bathroom’s door.

Without turning on the light, he got on his knees in front of the toilet. His dressing gown was open and it lay on the white tiles like a cape, a thin veil that stuck to the few water stains that were left after Bernie’s shower. He tried to focus, sighed, and closed his eyes. 

_What a disgusting pig you are._

His boyfriend’s words resonated in his head, words he’d said during their latest argument. Elton wanted to be better for him. He wanted to get rid of all that popcorn he’d eaten, which definitely wasn’t going to help his figure. He had been too fat for his liking for as long as he could remember, no wonder John was always cheating on him. He needed to fix himself, to be skinnier, to be beautiful, to be enough. For him, purging was a way to try and get there.

Elton gathered the courage to bring a shaky hand up to his face, and stick a finger in his throat. He knew exactly what to do to induce himself to vomit, the sensation was horrible but relieving in a bizarre way. It would be over soon, he thought, this cycle of self-loathing and psychological torture, this bumpy road he called his life. He just needed to hold on for a bit, carry out his plan. Comply strictly to the terms he had agreed with himself, resist for however long the preparations took to get it perfectly on the first try. If he had the wind at his back, he would finally be free in a matter of weeks.

He noticed his fingertips had a bitter taste when they brushed his tongue. Those were same fingers he would use to lovingly caress John Reid, and Bernie’s hair. Two opposing categories, distinct dimensions, two feelings so contrasting yet so weirdly similar. Elton loved them both but in different ways, and he wasn’t sure why he found more joy in goofing around with Bernie, drunkenly singing with him for hours, rather than in spending time with John. John was his boyfriend, the man he wanted to marry in the future, it didn’t make sense why he preferred Bernie’s company over the love of his life’s.

Elton gave up after a few minutes of unsuccessful gagging. His eyes were teary and his fingers were covered in warm saliva. He felt like a complete failure, ashamed he wasn’t capable of doing what he considered a simple, mundane act. He rested his elbows on the seat, almost in defeat. He was painfully aware of the reason why he couldn’t do it.

He could go to a fancy restaurant and taste every single thing in the menu, come back home and erase his mistake without much of a hassle. He could go out for dinner with his boyfriend, eat ice cream and try to fix his wrongdoing once he found himself alone. He didn’t find it too challenging, he was used to it already; it wasn’t a big deal. He took pleasure in eating, but he didn’t like how easily he would put on weight. He found this dangerous technique alleviating, and he didn’t believe he was bulimic. For him, it was just the way he’d found round a problem he was struggling with.

However, he couldn’t bring himself to throw up after eating something Bernie had prepared. Not after seeing how worried he was, how he would make an effort to cook Elton’s favourite foods whenever he had the opportunity to do so, how much love he put into it. He couldn’t do it after having dinner with him that night, a delicious roast beef with mashed potatoes. His friend was quite proud of how it had turned out, and he was a great cook.

He’d discovered Elton’s disorder years ago, and for the first few months he was woefully _shattered_. Now he became concerned whenever he noticed Elton was taking too long in the bathroom, or when he said he wanted to skip a meal. Bernie would become insistent and try to help him, and in return Elton would become angry and yell at him. And then, every time without fail, he would regret treating his best friend so nastily and beg for his forgiveness.

Elton had seen Bernie wearing an apron, holding a wooden spoon and proudly presenting a new recipe he’d learnt for him many times. He would be so happy when his friend ate normally, such a simple thing would bring the most wonderful smile to his face. The only time Elton threw up after one of Bernie’s meals, he felt so guilty afterwards that he thought about refusing to ever eat again and just starve. He deserved it for being such a horrible friend.

He looked down at his legs. His scars were starting to fade, and the only mark that stood out was the wound he’d given himself right after John left, two days ago. He’d tried not to, he didn’t want to disappoint Bernie, but the pain was too unbearable and he needed something to get rid of it. He thought about having a line or two, but the sensation of the blade tearing apart the flesh and seeing the bright red blood coming out were more attractive. Fighting emotional pain with physical pain looked like it would only make things worse but it helped him to forget, and at least momentarily, he could find solace in it.

Bernie shouldn’t have known about those cuts either, but on one occasion Elton had made one lower than usual, above his knee. It wouldn’t heal, and as much as he tried to hide it, Bernie noticed during one of his sleepovers. Bernie’s desperate pleads made him want to disappear.

_Reggie, please, for the love of God, don’t ever hurt yourself again. Please, promise me you won’t do it._

Elton considered himself a terrible friend, because he’d broken that promise many times, in diverse ways. He just hoped Bernie wasn’t as observant when looking at his legs as he was when watching films.

The pianist got up with much effort, and opened the tap to wash his hands and his face. He hadn’t done it, but he needed to get rid of any evidence that he had been trying to. While he refreshed and made sure his eyes weren’t irritated anymore, he thought about his list.

It was still in the right pocket of his jacket, the first item waiting to be ticked. This gave Elton an eerie sense of calmness. He knew he was in too deep to escape when thinking about his own death brought him _peace_ rather than scared him, when he started finding comfort in the prospect of it being over. Done, finished, in the past. History.

He used the towel to dry his face. He put his glasses on again. He came back to his bedroom with extreme care, as if he were walking on a minefield. When he saw Bernie, he considered going to sleep in the guest room so as to avoid having to lie down next to him. Firstly, because he didn’t want to bother him, and secondly because he was remorseful. He’d just gone to try and hurt himself again behind his back, he’d gone to dispose of the meal Bernie had thoughtfully prepared for him, worrying about his health and well-being. He was, indeed, the worst best friend ever.

He discarded this alternative when he realised Bernie wouldn’t be happy to wake up alone, and would ask him a thousand questions about why he’d left.

Although Elton was honest with him most of the time, there were some things Bernie was better off without knowing. Elton would sprinkle what he saw as _innocent white lies_ in their conversations whenever he felt Bernie was too close to discovering his plan. The last thing Elton wanted was to hurt his friend, and he knew that if he told him about it, he wouldn’t simply accept it. He would do everything in his power to stop him. He was glad Bernie cared about him, but that wasn’t enough for him to want to stay. He’d made his decision a long time ago and wasn’t going to change his mind now, and he didn’t want anyone getting in his way.

Trying to be as light as a feather, Elton sat on the bed. His heart skipped a beat when Bernie moved to lie on his side, facing him. He stayed still for a minute, wondering whether he was awake. When he tried to lie down, Bernie’s voice was softly heard.

“Reggie…”

Elton tried his best to act natural. He went back to the position he had originally lied down in to watch the film, and Bernie was pleased to rest his head on his friend’s arm again. Despite being half-asleep, his instinct was telling him something was wrong. Elton’s rattled expression gave it away. Elton could not only see but _feel_ Bernie was looking at him. It was such a Bernie thing to look at people in the eye when he talked to them, and Elton couldn’t decide whether he loved or hated it.

“Why did you get up?”

The pianist decided to go with the truth, but tell only what was necessary and wouldn’t upset his friend. He didn’t like to be tiptoeing around him but he had no choice. He valued Bernie’s feelings and mental stability more than his own.

“Went to the bathroom.” He said, looking away and inclining his head to rest it on Bernie’s.

Silence ensued, and Bernie wasn’t satisfied with that shallow explanation. He sat up and faced his friend, leaving Elton feeling surprisingly empty. He could no longer perceive the warmth of Bernie’s body against his, the sense of attachment it gave him. He lay there, watching as Bernie crossed his legs like a kid sitting in the middle of a playground. He looked ready to start interrogating him.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Elton nodded. “Good.”

Bernie frowned, and went straight to the point. He spoke stiffly but with an underlying kindness which affirmed his intentions were honourable. They always were. 

“Reggie, did you hurt yourself?”

Elton swallowed. He hadn’t this time around, so he wasn’t sure if that question was founded on something he’d heard that concerned him, or was a shot in the dark. Either way he felt desperate to refute it.

“I wasn’t- “

“Please.” Bernie interrupted him, his eyes fixated on Elton’s. “Did you- Did you do it again?”

At this point Elton wasn’t sure what Bernie was asking him about.

_Have I thrown up everything I’ve eaten today? No, I haven’t. Have I sliced my thighs while you were sleeping? No, I haven’t. Was I picking at the wound in my head, under my soon-to-be-gone hair? No, I wasn’t. Was I sniffing cocaine like a maniac to numb the pain? No, disgracefully, I’ve ran out. What was that dealer’s number again?_

“No.” Elton shook his head, sitting up and closing his dressing gown to feel less exposed. He was telling the truth, but he was so used to hiding it that being honest felt as if he were lying.

“Reg, you can tell me. I’m not gonna be mad.” Bernie insisted, as was habitual, and Elton bit his lip to refrain from raising his voice next time he spoke.

“Drop it.” He warned. He hated these sudden changes of humour that crept up when he was under pressure, when rage would suddenly come to the surface and make him say things without thinking.

He didn’t know why it happened. He wasn’t going to go to a therapist, either. He was just stressed out, he told himself. Nervous. Maybe a bit anxious, a tad miserable. But not so much that he needed a psychologist treating him like a madman. Even though he tried, he couldn’t fool himself. He knew he’d lost his mind the moment he wrote his to-do list. He wasn’t in control of his emotions and his death, the one thing he had carefully arranged to be in control of, was in a sense out of his hands too.

_Will I go through with it or will I end up blowing my brains out three days before planned? What if I lose the last bit of reason I’ve got left and use a kitchen knife to nearly decapitate myself, cutting from one side of my neck to the other? Wouldn’t it be easier if I did just that? I could go there right fucking now, grab the biggest one I find, and be done with this. Good riddance, would everyone say, that queer was taking too long to end his pathetic life. We can move on._

_But I can’t. I wouldn’t want Bernie to see the mess after. Neither would I want him to be cleaning it up._

“Reg- “

“I said _drop it_.” Elton repeated, furrowing, emphasizing the last two words.

“You worry me- “

“What I do to my own body isn’t _any_ of your _bloody_ business!”

Bernie flinched when his friend shouted, and if he were standing, he would’ve taken a step back. His eyes resembled those of a frightened child. Even though what Elton said was quite tame in comparison to other occasions, he felt equally as horrible. He couldn’t handle seeing his best friend being startled, afraid. Elton couldn’t stand the fact that he was so mean, so rude, that he treated him this way.

And that was yet another one of the reasons why he hated himself.

The only person in the whole world who actually cared about him, Bernie, would have to endure all these things regularly. Elton didn’t even know _how_ he did, how he was his best friend despite his addictions, emotional instability, his flaws. He was practically _unlovable_ and he knew it. John reminded Elton of that fact every time they had a row.

Elton covered his face with his hands. Bernie crawled to him and hugged him tightly, rubbing his back gently, knowing he didn’t mean it. He never meant any of the things he said during those fits. He understood.

“I’m sorry.”

His whisper was almost unintelligible. Bernie returned the gesture Elton had made earlier that night, kissing his forehead. This made the pianist feel moved, and stop covering his face to hug his friend back. 

“I know.”

Elton just hoped Bernie would be happier once he was gone. It wouldn’t be too difficult, after all.


	3. Déjà Vu

Waiting for John while standing outside, with his luggage next to him, felt just like waiting for his mother after school, with his backpack laying on the ground between his feet because it was too heavy for him to continue carrying it.

A feeling of uncertainty, with traces of justified fear. A gut-wrenching sensation that distracted him from the world around, after yet another tiresome day hearing other students calling him names. He bloody _knew_ he was fat, he didn’t need other kids to remind him every two seconds, but they enjoyed having him as their object of ridicule. And he couldn’t do anything about it, he could just wait until the day was over and walk to the street where his mother would always pick him up while hoping the next day would be better. But the teasing never got better, it never ceased, it just got worse and fed into what would later become his eating disorder.

The young Reggie Dwight felt time stretched whenever he found himself standing there, alone with his thoughts, escaping one hell to enter another. Making the painful transition from leaving the packed classroom filled with cruel whispers to enter his home, with a family that wasn’t too different. His mother’s glowers, his father’s downright indifference, and the loneliness of not having a sibling to share his days with haunted him. He would come home, do his homework, and try to distract himself by indulging in what he loved: playing the piano. Nan was the one who cared enough to sit and listen when he played, she was the one who believed in Reggie and his dreams.

Elton pressed his open palm on his chest, the memory of his sweet Nan always present. He still hadn’t gotten over her death, and most likely would never. How unjust it was that a stroke took her away so soon. At least, Elton thought, she had gone with an image of her grandson that he was quite satisfied with: she left during the start of his fame, the happiest period of his life, she got to see her little Reggie reaching his dreams. And the best part was that she hadn’t gotten to see his mental downfall, the news stories about his drug abuse, and wouldn’t hear of his suicide once it happened. Nan had gone go her eternal sleep convinced that Reggie would live a long life filled with sheer joy and adventures alongside Bernie, his lovely friend. 

Elton didn’t need to close his eyes to almost see, even so many years later, his mother’s expression when she arrived. She used to scan his appearance from head to toe, then tell him to get in the car at once and stop wasting her time just staring at her with that dumb look. She would throw in contemptuous comments on how his uniform’s shirt crinkled around his midriff, as Reggie sat in silence just taking it on the chin and pretending not to care. However, her words always hurt, no matter how accustomed to hearing them he became.

His mother’s green eyes _scared_ him. They seemed empty most of the time. Colder than snow during winter, than the damp breeze that filtered through Reggie’s bedroom window during windy nights. There was that perpetual judgement hidden behind them, which contributed to his insecurities, and he often wondered if he would ever see that loving motherly glance he had read about in books. He hoped he would once he managed to make her proud.

And now that he was a pianist and a singer, a successful, respected and wealthy musician, Sheila still wasn’t proud.

Elton sighed. The waiting for John seemed eternal, as if time had forgotten to pass or was taking pleasure in seeing him fidgeting and constantly moving his eyes from his luggage to his watch. He pushed his glasses with his finger when they slid down his nose whenever he looked down. He was too impatient to stand in place, so he took his suitcase and walked up to his door to sit on the steps in front of it. He wished he had a cigarette at hand to calm his nerves, but he wouldn’t want to go and get one now just in case John came. 

Bored and with nothing to do, he allowed his mind to wander back to beginning of the past weekend.

After calling for Elton many times and being unsuccessful in waking him up, Bernie went to prepare breakfast. When he came back he opened the bedroom’s door using his foot, as he was carrying a silver tray in his hands. Elton was still in a state between sleep and wakefulness when he heard the cheery _good morning_ Bernie chirped. He covered himself with the sheets without opening his eyes and muttered that he didn’t want to get up just yet.

Bernie walked up to the bed and left the tray on the bedside table. Then, he got a hold of the sheets and pulled them, uncovering the pianist, who abruptly closed his dressing gown out of habit. He knew he didn’t need to, Bernie wasn’t John and he would never make any hurtful observations on his image, but there was still a twinge of insecurity at the back of his mind that he couldn’t get rid of.

Elton looked at him like a child would look at his parents when refusing to get out of bed to go to school. Bernie grinned at this sight and a small chuckle escaped before he could stop it. Hearing it caused Elton to stop frowning and smile instead, laughing at himself for his silly manner, as he extended an arm to clumsily grope for his glasses.

Two cups of hot chocolate, arguably the most delicately decorated ones Elton had ever seen, occupied the silver tray. Bernie had put cream sprinkled with cocoa on top of them, and a tiny piece of chocolate rested on top of each foamy layer. He had arranged biscuits in a straight line that extended from one end of the tray to the other, and folded two serviettes in triangles. It was a humble presentation when compared to the fancy breakfasts Elton would get when staying in exclusive hotels, but the fact that Bernie had bothered to put it together with his own hands made it infinitely superior.

They didn’t need to switch on the television, as their conversation proved more than enough to entertain themselves. As they sipped their cups of hot chocolate, Bernie gave his delayed review of the film they had watched the night before and Elton listened intently. Bernie had such a captivating way of speaking that Elton could listen with the same sincere interest no matter if he was talking about the cuteness of ducks or the meaning of life. He had a tendency to sound just as poetic as his writings even when describing the most basic ideas.

After a particularly silly comment on Elton’s part about the film’s plot, Bernie laughed and nudged him. In his usual fashion of always making eye contact, he gave the pianist a friendly gaze, which Elton adored.

Seeing Bernie’s smile, the way in which he gracefully moved his hands when talking, hearing those particular inflections in his voice, and being faced with all this while still in a drowsy state made him take notice of how _attractive_ Bernie was. Not only physically, with his dark hair and lean figure, but also personality-wise, just how caring and thoughtful he was. That simple gesture of arranging the biscuits in a line was the smallest expression of it. How wonderful it was to listen to what he had to say. How beautiful the fact that he consoled him and accepted his apology the night before was. How hugging him made Elton feel safe. How invaluable it was to hear his attempts to lift the pianist’s spirit with silly jokes.

_John has never done that for me._

Once all the biscuits had gone, Bernie reminded Elton of his upcoming trip. Elton could read between the lines of his innocent remark. He understood it was an indirect way of asking him to make an effort for the weekend, abstain from his unhealthy habits and save energy for the recording sessions. He wasn’t sure whether he would be able to, but he told Bernie he really needn’t worry. 

Bernie stayed with him all day and left in the evening. Waving as he walked away always left Elton feeling sad, but he was hopeful he would see him again soon. Elton’s heart told him he should run, clasp Bernie in his arms, and ask him to go to go to France with him. He didn’t want to have to stay in a hotel room alone with John, away from Bernie. He needed his company, his adorable western obsession, his unique smile, his stunning blue eyes.

Elton knew his time was running out. Each second, he was closer and closer to his death. He needed to spend as much time with Bernie as possible, to make sure he wouldn’t miss him. To make sure he said all the things he wanted to tell him.

However strong that feeling was, he had to supress it for the moment. He waved goodbye from his house’s door, and watched a little piece of himself leave with Bernie.

Elton rested his head on his hand and closed his eyes, feeling how cold the stairs on which he sat were. What he wouldn’t give for that Saturday to last forever, for Bernie to stay forever. He’d rather go back in time, share a small flat with Bernie for eternity, and live being a little musician known for the London blues scene, successful enough not to starve yet still anonymous in the grand scheme of things.

“Elton!” John yelled from the car, and he didn’t sound happy. “What are you waiting for?”

Elton shook his head quickly and stood up. He hurried to take his suitcase and approach the car. The chauffeur greeted him politely and he returned the gesture. As the man took care of his luggage and opened the boot, Elton got inside the car and closed the door. He didn’t know for how long John had been calling for him, but judging by his expression, it had been a long time. Or, at least, long enough to make him angry.

John looked him up and down.

“Could you stop wasting my time and respond when I call for you?”

John sounded awfully resembling to Sheila. Elton looked away, trying to get rid of the image of his mother, of her sneers and her empty green eyes. He didn’t need to see him to know John was staring a hole through him, and when he heard his voice again, it sounded severe.

“We can’t be late and you know it.”

“Sorry.”

“Apologise when you actually mean it.”

Elton opened his mouth to reply, to insist he meant it, but closed it again without uttering a word. Instead, he sat with his elbow on the armrest, unconsciously going as far away from John as possible. The chauffeur returned, and they set off.

John and him chatted in a laid-back manner about trivial subjects such as the climate, while Elton sat in silence. Just like he did back in the day, while his mother made unnecessary mentions of how lovely other people’s children were and asked why he couldn’t be more like them.

He looked outside the window, buildings slowly passing before his eyes, as his hands rested on his lap. The journey to Heathrow was going to be long not because it was located far away, but because of the traffic. He just hoped they would arrive without meeting rowdy journalists hoping to get an interview, or other unpleasant surprises.

John noticed his quietness, and after laughing along with the chauffeur about a not very ingenuous joke about one of Elton’s fellow musicians, he turned to him and met his levelly glance set on the sky.

“Don’t you think that’s true, Elton?”

Elton nodded, even though he didn’t know what he was agreeing with.

John touched Elton’s right hand, which rested on his thigh. The pianist looked at their hands, thinking that right under the fabric below them the cut he’d given himself days ago was still healing. Then he sheepishly allowed himself to contemplate John’s face. He was so incredibly handsome, and had a way of smirking whenever he apologised that Elton couldn’t quite read. He wasn’t sure if it was a signal of his honesty, or a way of exerting the amount of power he had over his lover. He could just give him that smile and Elton would forgive him no matter what he’d done, and he seemed to be aware of it. Even worse, he seemed to use it as one of many tools to get away with hurting him without consequences.

“Hey…” He said, soft voice embellished by his accent. He was running his fingers over the skin of Elton’s hand, a light caress. “I’m sorry about what happened the other day.”

Elton’s voice sank to a whisper. “It’s fine.”

It had stopped being fine a long time ago, but Elton was scared to admit it. He wanted the situation to change, but didn’t even know where to start, or if he should try to do anything at all. He didn’t want to lose John, and he knew that trying to talk about it wasn’t an option, so he could only try his best to behave. He wouldn’t want to anger him, he had enough things to deal with already, he didn’t need a whiny boyfriend on top of that. He was doing a marvellous job as his manager and Elton didn’t think he deserved it.

Elton wanted their relationship to return to what it once was. To stay like when it first started, that torrid romance that had initially captivated him, that made him feel so protected and cared for when he was craving for affection. He longed for the sweet moments that quenched his thirst for love, and now he felt all that had vanished and been replaced with this… _thing_.

For Elton, there was love somewhere in the equation. The flame wasn’t extinguished, but it didn’t burn as it used to. He loved John, he loved his brilliant mind and he knew he had a good heart, but he was finding it harder to deal with the quickness of his temper as of lately. He wasn’t sure if the few moments of happiness he got when John was in a good mood could make up for all the rows, the insults, the emotional pain he had to push through on his own.

Their last argument was a poignant memory to recall. John had fallen into yet another sudden paroxysm of jealousy after stumbling upon Bernie leaving Elton’s home, and started a lengthy wrangle about him as soon as he closed the door and found himself alone with his boyfriend. And he was livid once he saw Elton in his nightwear, which meant Bernie had stayed overnight, as if that wasn’t an already extensively discussed subject.

Elton’s stance on the issue was firm, as it had always been. Bernie and him were friends and that was it, and he wouldn’t stop hugging him or inviting him home just because John disliked him. It was one of the only, if not the only matter in which Elton was absolutely inflexible despite John’s best efforts.

John complained about how Elton seemed to confide more in Bernie than in him, demanded to know why that was, and asked how on earth Elton didn’t expect him to be suspicious when the lyricist and him spent so much time alone. Elton tried to stay calm and justify his demeanour with a collected explanation, emphasising that Bernie wasn't even gay, but his anger management problems took over and soon their discussion degenerated into a shouting match.

John had seen his self injury marks and he'd just told him not to be stupid and stop, that no one would benefit if he died in his bathroom during the height of his fame. And he didn’t hesitate to fling the same uncaring words at his lover during this argument once he discovered Elton had been throwing up again. He said he found that disgusting, and that in any case he probably wasn’t doing it well enough _because he was still fat._ He said he needed to get it together to perform properly, he had responsibilities he couldn't ignore.

Elton didn’t know if John was insensitive because he didn’t understand it, or just because he didn’t really give a damn about anything other than money. 

“You don’t actually think any of the things I said are true, do you?”

Elton shook his head, but deep inside, he thought the exact opposite.

_What a disgusting pig you are._

John smiled.

“This next album’s going to be great.” He assured. “Just like all the others.”

Elton managed to smile slightly even though he didn’t really mean it, turned his hand so that the palm was facing upwards, and let John intertwine their fingers. It was something they had done since the early days, when Elton was nervous before a performance, or as a way to be closer when in bed.

Maybe now that they would have a week for themselves, things would get better. Or, thinking realistically, Elton could be holding onto a vain hope. That same vain hope that tomorrow would be better that kept him going through middle school only to graduate without a single friend.

_Will John miss me when I’m gone?_


	4. Lonely

“Dee, that’s not how you play!” Nigel threw his cards on the table, angry but amused.

“ _You_ are the one who doesn’t know how to play!” Dee did the same, and pointed at him accusatorily.

“Gentlemen, please. You’re equally bad at it.” Davey said, resting his back on the sofa, in a nonchalant manner.

“Shut up, Davey!”

While his band laughed and played cards, and John had a drink with some lad at the other side of the plane, Elton contemplated the sky.

The layer of white clouds that separated the plane from the world underneath, as seen from the other side of the window, was fairy-tale like. Elton crossed his arms above the sofa’s back and rested his head on them, in the same fashion he would when trying not to fall asleep on the mixing console during a long day at work.

It looked like a comfortable surface to sleep on, a giant valley of white cotton under the warm sunlight where he could lie and let his worries fade away. Where he could sleep peacefully, unconcerned, not thinking about the uncertainties of the next day. Unbothered, hearing his own breathing, seeing nothing but the blue sky above him. 

It reminded Elton of the tale of _Jack and the Beanstalk_ , which was amongst his Nan’s repertoire of _rainy tales_. He stared at the scenery and pictured a plant growing tall enough to pass through the clouds and reveal itself at the other side. Nan would always tell stories changing the protagonist to be _a little red-haired boy_ , which Reggie knew was him, so Elton visualized himself as a child climbing the plant and reaching the top. Green eyes assessing his surroundings in awe as he started walking through the clouds, away from all the matters that made him uneasy, leaving behind a world that never wanted him in the first place.

Whenever he watched the sky and got lost in its blue enormity, he imagined becoming a bird who could spread his wings and fly away from everything, with no particular guidance. Only the subtle suggestion of the direction of the wind marking a path that he could follow or not. A tiny nightingale singing beautifully, in harmony with the rustling of the leaves. Too high up for worries to reach him, yet low enough to see the cities lighting up at night. An overwhelming, sensational feeling of _freedom_ enveloping him. The calm of being alone, yet somehow far away from himself.

He didn’t believe he would be reincarnated after he died, but in case he did, he desperately wanted to be a bird. He wouldn’t want to be a person again. The only thing he would miss about his current body where his hands, which weren’t pleasing to look at anyway. Their value was in that they could do. He would miss playing the piano, but he would be glad to be liberated from all the implications that being _human_ had. He wouldn’t miss his scarred thighs, nor his thinning hair, his wounds, that disgusting fat he couldn’t get rid of, that feeling of never being good enough for anything, the hopelessness of knowing he _wasn’t_ _lovable_. He would be a majestic bird that could fly away and touch those fluffy clouds with the tips of his wings, covered in long feathers.

He had discussed this desire with Bernie, both more than a bit tipsy, in the early hours of a weekday back when they lived together. The sixties were dying, some jazz could be heard in the background and the friends shared Elton’s bed, speculating about how the future would be when they made it. If they made it, that was. Their conversation, once it had derailed into a pseudo-philosophical pondering, had inspired _Skyline Pigeon_. It would be a part of their first album, and the song had a special place in Elton’s heart. He remembered how Bernie had showed him the different sections of his poem after writing it, explaining how Elton had given birth to the idea with his rambling speech, a drunken discourse he didn’t have much recollection of.

The blue colour of the sky strongly resembled Bernie’s eyes. This thought made Elton exchange his previously contemplative furrow for a nostalgic grin. It was ridiculous to be missing him already, but he couldn’t help it. Since he’d said goodbye on Saturday, time had slowed down. It always did whenever he wasn’t close, and when he was, not even the longest hours were enough. Elton could never get enough of his lyricist; he would never bore him no matter how well he knew him. He was probably the only healthy addiction he had, because sometimes he felt that way. He felt _addicted_ to Bernie, to everything about him. And he didn’t mind admitting it.

His eyes went back to the clouds, back to the fantastic world his mind was taking him to. A world where he could escape, where he was at peace with everything, where people could walk on clouds. He imagined Bernie walking on them, saying they tickled his feet, and taking a little piece as if they were cotton candy to try and taste them. He saw himself frolicking with his best friend across the fluffy land. Bernie tripping over his own feet and falling on the soft surface beneath him. Elton taking advantage of that moment of vulnerability to hold him down and tickle him.

He could almost hear Bernie’s contagious laughter, see the way the outer corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

Elton’s glasses started sliding down his nose, and that intervention from reality pulled him out of his reverie. His cheeks were sore from smiling so much. 

He took his glasses off and sat properly on the sofa, letting his face relax. Dee and Nigel placed cards on the tiny table, in front of him. Davey sipped his beer and watched, giggling as if he was telling jokes to himself, and chimed in every now and then with his opinion on their game. They were too immersed in it to notice the closed notebook that rested on the sofa next to the pianist.

It was Elton’s, full of work-related annotations and sheet music. He was tired and could use some sleep, but he still wasn’t satisfied with the piano arrangement for _Mellow_. He had figured he could finish it now that he didn’t have anything else to do and John was too busy having a drink and fancying some lad, but he couldn’t focus. It wasn’t because of his band's voices, he was able to ignore them without trying much, but his mind was somewhere else. He normally didn’t even need a piano to compose, he could hear the notes in his head as he wrote them down, but today his inspiration wasn’t there.

Now that he was out of his pleasant daydream and back to reality, he had to get _something_ done. Maybe if he couldn’t write for _Mellow_ , he could take care of other things.

He cleaned the crystals of his glasses, whose thick lenses were a necessary evil, using the sleeve of his satin shirt. While he did so, he regarded his notebook. Dee placed a card on the table, looked at Nigel, and waited. His bandmate thought about his next move, while Elton extended his arm to reach the notebook.

Davey observed Elton as he placed it on his lap and opened it, still without his glasses on. He could barely distinguish the blurry lines written in a piece of crumpled paper that lay there, almost calling him to take it in his hands, reminding him of what he had yet to do.

“Hey boss, doing alright?” Davey asked, with a smile.

“Yeah. Just tired.” Elton nodded, without taking his eyes off the paper.

It was his list.

He’d retrieved it from his jacket’s pocket and put it inside his notebook before leaving, where he knew nobody would find it. He’d done it even though he knew that if John saw it, he would probably dismiss it as some kind of nonsensical scribble Elton had done while high. He wouldn’t care enough to ask.

Elton put his glasses on again, and took the paper. The first item was aggressively crossed out instead of ticked, the little box he’d drawn served no purpose. It felt more satisfying to trace over it, discard it by making it almost illegible, part of the past, a secret only he could understand. His eyes went from the first item to the second, the next step in his plan. A number and a word, plain and simple, yet so meaningful.

_2 - Future_

His annotation wasn’t about his own future, because he was positive he wouldn’t have one. _Thank goodness_ , it was going to be over soon. The word was about the future of all that he’d built during his life, the future of his possessions. He needed to write a will to have everything organised by the time he left, but frankly, he didn’t feel like writing too long of a document. There weren’t many people to distribute his belongings among anyway, in fact, everything would go to the same person. 

He opened the notebook in a random blank page, and took his pen. He wrote the date at the top. His handwriting wasn’t very neat, and he wasn’t sure whether that was because he was exhausted or because his pulse trembled slightly. He reminded himself to keep his testament concise, merely a legal matter, and leave his feelings out of it. He could pour all that into a letter, along with his last wishes, later on. Closer to the final date, when he expected to have some kind of terminal lucidity that would help him to compose it.

_January 10th, 1972_

When he went to change his name three days ago, he also asked how to make a will legally valid. An exhausted government employee had recited the requirements without even looking at him or inquire why he wanted that information. Elton needed two witnesses to sign it after he was done. He thought about asking his band to sign it, but he figured it would be too weird, too suspicious. Davey couldn’t keep his mouth shut even if his life depended on it, and he would inevitably say something that would lead to Bernie uncovering Elton’s plan. He didn’t need that to happen, so the pianist could only hope the document would be accepted either way.

Elton respected his musicians, and never treated them as anything less than the talented people they were. John would laugh at him for that, saying that they didn’t really care about him and just wanted a bigger slice of the cake of his fame, and they planned to get it by making him feel good with their friendly attitudes. Elton was hesitant to believe what John affirmed was true. He felt comfortable working with them. They didn’t really treat Elton as their boss, except for the typical ‘ _will do, sir’_ Davey would utter ironically when he asked him to do something, and the word he used to address him. They were the closest thing to a group of friends he’d ever had, even though they were more like close acquaintances if that was an appliable term. He couldn’t confide in them in the same way he could with Bernie.

Elton tried to remember the exact format in which his will should be structured, and pressed the pen on the paper a few lines under where he’d written the date.

One would usually assume that the writing of such a document would be preferably done in more of a private setting, where no one could disturb or distract the mind from the task. Where nobody could ask and force you to explain what you were writing. However, for Elton, it made no difference. The only one who would be truly concerned if he got to see what he was doing was in England, far away and oblivious to what was going on. His band was busy playing cards, John was drinking somewhere else with that lad. The hypothetical scenario of someone bothering him was unlikely.

Even sitting there, with his three musicians, he felt alone. He was lonely even while in company, as always.

_I, Elton Hercules John, hereby revoke any previous will as pertains to the law and declare this as my will._

That sentence was a formality, because this was the first and last will he would write. He never liked taking care of legal matters such as these, but as regards to his death, he’d decided he would do everything himself. Exercise his power over his decisions, his uncontrolled desire to control something. In a different situation he would’ve done what almost every famous person did and leave everything to charity, but Elton felt he had an obligation to leave it all to him.

This testament wasn’t about his future. It was about Bernie’s future.

_I hereby appoint Bernard John Taupin as the executor of this will._

He was the only one who actually cared, and Elton wanted to show his gratitude by leaving everything to him. He hoped it would permit him to live a comfortable life and never worry about finances. Maybe Elton could, in this way, compensate for the sadness he was going to cause him. Perhaps Bernie would feel a bit better getting all those material things. Deep down, Elton knew this wouldn’t be the case. Bernie never cared much about possessions, which was yet another one of the reasons why Elton loved him.

_To be honest, I’m only doing this to save you the legal trouble, because I want to make sure you get everything and because I don’t want my family to get anything. And do I suck at writing these fancy things. See, this is why you’re the lyricist and all!_

Elton smiled. It was bittersweet, knowing that his actions were inevitably going to cause his best friend great pain. But he couldn’t step back, he wouldn’t. He wanted, he needed a conclusion, a final, to put an end to the torture.

_You already know, Bernie. Everything’s yours._

_This includes my part of our albums’ sales, my house, my pianos, my money, literally everything I own. My collection of glasses is all yours, as well as my ridiculously flamboyant wardrobe, as you call it. Jewels, cars, this fucking plane I’m on at the moment, what else? All those things I haven’t listed, too._

_You’re free to do as you please with them. I know you’ll do something wise, like donating stuff and all. You’ve always been smarter than me so you’ll figure it out._

The image of Bernie reading this will formed in Elton’s mind. He could see him sitting at home, unfolding the paper, covering his face with his hands. Trying not to stain it with tears. For Elton, this imaginary glimpse of what the future was going to be felt like a blade cutting his skin, a thousand times more painful than any of the wounds he’d given himself.

He quickly shook his head to get rid of it, he didn’t want to get emotional in front of his band. He would make sure Bernie didn’t feel sad, he would leave a pretty letter to cheer him up.

The pianist looked at his band. They seemed to be finishing their game already. Davey got up to get another beer, and Dee started to shuffle the deck of cards for another round. Unbeknownst to Elton, John was kissing the lad he’d been drinking with.

None of them suspected a thing, and Elton closed the notebook as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 


	5. Wilted

Hérouville had an ancient charm to it. Elton reckoned there was, even though not explicitly present, some kind of magical implication in its beautiful architecture. Many buildings had a hint of green in their walls, further evidence of how long they’d been there, of how many years they’d been facing adverse environmental conditions. Long paths bordered the flow of the river, and the streetlamps looked like lanterns on tall poles. Modernity seemed not to have bothered to reach the tiny French town just yet. There was an intrinsic calm in its atmosphere, and Elton wished it would remain this way for as long as it could. Coming from the restlessness of London, Hérouville-en-Vexin was a very pleasant breath of fresh air, especially after a morning filled to the brim with stressful work.

While walking along the towpath, Elton observed the trees swaying gently with the wind.

It was cold, but Elton was well dressed for the weather. He wore a fluffy light brown coat, the one that Bernie always insisted complimented his eyes. Elton saw no correlation between the two, but if Bernie said so there had to be some truth to it. He didn’t know whether the coat kept him warm because of its material, or because it reminded him of his friend. He would, hopefully, see him again in a matter of days, and show him how the album had turned out. Gus assured it was going to be a hit.

The garment Elton was wearing wasn’t very modest, it would probably guarantee stares if he was walking through a not so desolated area, but he was the only soul to be found in this part of the little town. He didn’t know for how long he’d been walking and didn’t look at his watch, but at this point, it didn’t make a difference. In the distance, he saw a white bench located in front of the river. Perhaps he could sit there for a while to rest his legs.

He buried his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, and ignored the paper that brushed the tips of his fingers. At least for now, until he reached that bench, he wanted to think about something else. Anything else.

It was the fourth day of recording, a few minutes past midday. The band wanted a break for lunch, and Elton was hungry. It was a normal meal, or at least it looked like that for his producer and bandmates. He smiled, joked and laughed with them. Inside, he was repulsed by the fact that he’d eaten so much and couldn’t wait to get rid of his mistake.

He’d gone to the bathroom and done so shortly after.

Elton had felt out of his element for the entire day, and decided that going for a walk could help him clear his mind. Without explaining much, he said he would go out and left. John didn’t look up from the newspaper he was reading, neither did he ask where he was going, but reminded him to be back in time for the session.

Elton wasn’t too familiar with Hérouville, so he just followed the river to see where it would take him. Hopefully, it would lead to some peace of mind.

He passed in front of a row of tiny houses, which blended almost perfectly with the landscape. They were painted in various shades of grey, just like the sky. The river’s water was translucent, fish rapidly swam with the current. The only sprinkles of colour that complimented the scenery were scattered at each side of the towpath; bushes of red roses that once flourished beautifully were now wilting.

Elton kneeled in front of one of these plants, and took one flower. He cut the stem gently, almost as if the dying rose could feel pain and he didn’t want to hurt it. He made sure to avoid damaging his fingers with its thorns, and once he had the flower in his hands, he contemplated it for a moment. Even in its decay, the rose was magnificent. Full of dark red petals, maybe not quite as vivid as they once were, but breath-taking in their own way. He got up, taking it with him, and headed for the white bench.

Its surface was colder than the air, it felt like sitting on ice. Despite that, it was a good place to regard the sight before him. At the other side of the river there was a meadow, once coated in yellow flowers, now just as despairing to see as the string of dying rose bushes.

Winter wasn’t Elton’s favourite season, but he had to admit that it did make the sky look mysteriously beautiful. It was completely obscured by clouds, no traces of what was waiting at the other side visible from under the greyness. He’d been at the other side days before and knowing that the blue sky, though hidden, was still there, brought him calm.

Elton’s glasses, which were way too plain-looking for what he was used to, allowed him to see the clouds in detail. He remembered, when he was a child, often comparing how the world looked like with and without his glasses. Sometimes it was a funny past-time, seeing everything become blurry and go back to normal again when he put them on. On other occasions, it made him sad. Depending on two crystals to see properly made him feel tiny, insignificant, useless.

A particularly awful memory would always creep up on him. His teacher had asked him to read what she’d written on the chalkboard. From his seat, and even while wearing his glasses, he couldn’t see it. He told her so, and she insisted he wasn’t going to get away with not participating in class with such a bland excuse. He’d always been a quiet kid, and being pushed into the spotlight like that made him anxious, but he was being honest when saying he couldn’t read it. He heard his classmates barely repressing mocking chuckles. He tried not to cry, but his vision became even blurrier and a lump formed in his throat. He couldn’t do what he was asked to.

One would believe that after so many years since the event, the memory would fade and eventually disappear. However, Elton always had trouble forgetting unpleasant experiences. He would never forget his years in the educational system, all the insults that were thrown at him, how humiliated he’d felt having to come back every day to the place where he would encounter his detractors.

But he had no choice.

Elton needed to relax. He checked his watch and confirmed he had to get back to the studio in short. He breathed deeply, and tried to focus on the clouds for this last moment before the upcoming hassle. His gaze was fixated on the grey immensity.

He wondered whether his own life was that way, if there was a blue sky waiting behind the clouds, if he should hold on for a bit longer. If there was something he should be waiting for, if a sunny day would come. Whether there was a reason to look forward to another day, to wait until the clouds dissipated. If it was worth it to wait and see if they dissipated at all. Elton was certain they never would. 

He thought himself more resembling to the rose he was holding. Hopeless, wilted, irreparable. With nothing to look forward to, merely waiting to be cut and rid of his misery.

He delved into his pocket and quickly found his list. The first two items were crossed out, and his eyes were drawn to the third one.

_3 - Nan_

The moment he made his decision, he knew where he wanted to be buried: Right next to Nan, in that cemetery in Pinner. He wanted to accompany his grandmother, because he was almost sure he wouldn’t meet her again. This was the only way in which he could ensure he’d be forever close to her.

Elton had, many times already, thought about what he would do if there _was_ some kind of afterlife. If he became a wandering spirit, still present in the world but without a body. He would probably just make sure Bernie was alright, not invading him with hints that he was watching, but silently guarding him from any harm. It would be sweet, he initially thought, getting to see Bernie grow old. To see him writing, having children, being happy without him. And maybe, once Bernie himself passed, he would join him at the other side. Then, perhaps, he would be happy.

However, he soon realised he didn’t want any form of life. He just wanted it to cease. He really hoped there wasn’t anything beyond, that he would be faced with quiet darkness, that Epicurus was right when saying that death was the end of the body and the soul. Elton wasn’t sure if he wanted to die, but he was certain he didn’t want to live. He didn’t want to exist anymore, he didn’t want to feel. He wanted to rest.

He’d thought about being cremated and doing something with his ashes, such as planting a tree. But no tree would want to grow among the ashes of such a miserable man. In any case, his ashes would be nothing more than a predicament for that unfortunate plant. 

Elton folded the paper and put it in his pocket again.

His focus went back to the rose. A petal became unattached and was blown away with the wind. Elton watched it twist and turn in the air, only to end up in the river’s waters.

A dusty remembrance, almost forgotten, came to mind. 

He picked one petal off.

_He loves me._

He’d played that game many times during his childhood, sitting in solitude and away from everybody, like he was now. The first time he’d done it, he’d been thinking about a boy from school.

_He loves me not._

Reggie didn’t have many opportunities to make friends. When a new kid came along, the others made sure to inform them that they shouldn’t, under any circumstances, even talk to the fat freak that sat at the front because he was blind as a bat. If they did, they would become targets. No one wanted to take the risk.

This boy was different. He’d talked to him despite his classmates’ warnings, and Reggie had never felt so accepted. He was funny, charming, charismatic and so kind. They sat together during recess, talked about books, shared lunch, did homework together. It felt natural to be around him, it felt amazing.

_He loves me._

Sometimes, Nan would talk about angels. She insisted that, not very frequently, they were sent to Earth in human form to enrich peoples’ lives. That one could tell when beholding an angel because of their kind hearts.

Reggie was convinced that his new friend was one.

_He loves me not._

However, it was too good to last. It didn’t take long for the others to start spreading rumours about the pair of friends, and the new boy slowly started to distance himself from Reggie. They didn’t spend time together anymore, and if they did so, it was in private. Maybe coming over to do homework or so, but never being close in public.

Nobody would want to be caught acting friendly with the queer kid. As the days passed, the boy became mean and uncaring. He was desperately trying to let everyone know that he wasn’t like Reggie. He’d only talked to him because he’d felt bad for the poor loser.

He started to join in when the others teased Reggie. He’d lost his only friend.

_He loves me._

Young Reggie got a taste of heartbreak, and it was oddly similar to what Elton felt in the present with John.

_He loves me not._

The flower had no more petals. He smiled, disheartened. How naïve had it been on his part, believing that the initial bliss would last forever.

“Boss?”

Elton jumped, promptly looked at his right and cursed.

“Davey, for fuck’s sake! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

Davey giggled, cheeky, after hearing the pianist yell. His hand rested on Dee’s shoulder, who was standing at his right. Nigel didn’t laugh, and judging by his expression, he was worried.

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Aren’t you going back to the studio?” Dee asked. “We’ve been waiting- “

“I was about to.” Elton interrupted him coarsely and stood up. He threw the rose’s stem on the ground and rubbed his hands together.

“You haven’t been very involved today.” Nigel said, his concerned look still there. “Are you feeling okay?”

“There’s no reason why I shouldn’t be.” Elton replied sternly. He was not in the mood for explaining anything to anyone.

“If you were okay, you wouldn’t be crying.”

“Davey.” Nigel reprimanded his bandmate by nudging him, after seeing how Elton’s face shifted from an annoyed furrow to a surprised look.

He hadn’t even noticed, but now that he touched his cheek, he noticed Davey was right.

“I’m not crying.” Elton hurriedly wiped his tears away, maintaining his rude tone. “I’m fine.”

“So you’ve found him.” John emerged from out of nowhere, making the four men look at him.

He wasn’t happy. Elton knew that face very well. He knew it better than he would like to.

John stared at the band, and the three musicians understood they should go back to the studio without a word needed for the command to come across. John could certainly be intimidating and they valued their jobs, and in order to keep them, they had to be in good terms with him. This implied obedience, which none of them particularly liked to stick to but had to. 

Nigel gave Elton a final worried glance as he walked away with his bandmates.

Once he was sure they wouldn’t hear, John turned to Elton.

“Anything going on that I should know about?”

He was monotonous, but at the same time sounded so hostile it made Elton uneasy. He felt like a child in front of a stern teacher. Like little Reggie in front of his mother. And he _hated_ feeling this way, but he had no choice. 

Elton didn’t try to explain why he’d spaced out. He didn’t share what he was thinking, or made a remark about how much he resented that way John had of speaking to him when he was angry. He simply took it in, like he’d been tamed to do since his early childhood. Like he’d learnt, through events he didn’t like to recall, was the better option.

“I’m sorry.”

John, just like when Elton left, didn’t ask for his reasons.

“Don’t do it again. Now move, we’ve got two days left.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you can take a minute to leave a comment or kudos, I would appreciate it immensely. ❤️
> 
> If you're struggling with any of the illnesses/traumas/problems depicted in the story, know that I care. I send you all my love and virtual hugs.


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